One in Every Crowd

by Ivan E. Coyote

  Julian, fifteen: Some bigotry is rooted deeper than just in ignorance, but hopefully those people will eventually succumb to the inevitable and keep their mouths shut.

  Do you want to end homophobia, if indeed you feel it still exists? Why?

  Sarah: Of course I want it to end.

  Neil, seventeen: Why should straight people care? Why do white people care that we are mean to black people? It’s a moral issue and we have accepted that it is not okay to discriminate … period.

  Does homophobia impact your life in any way, or anyone who you know or care about?

  Sarah: One of my best friends felt so afraid of what would happen to him in my town that he felt the need to move. I haven’t seen him in over two years.

  Lisa, sixteen: I’ve grown up in a family that says they find nothing wrong with it, but have some serious issues, and I feel embarrassed. I meet these truly interesting and inspiring people, and it hurts to learn that they have been treated wrongly, especially when I hear the slander coming from the mouths of people I respect and trust. What if, somewhere down the line, I realize that I’m not heterosexual? I won’t have a problem with it, but what of my friends and family? Will they be supportive or turn their backs?

  Give an example of ways we could change things.

  Sarah: My school tries to stop people from using the term gay in a derogatory fashion by making the student who uses the word write a 5,000-word essay on why the use of that word could be offensive. But I don’t think this works because it is hardly ever done or checked up on.

  Julian: The fact that Gay/Straight Alliance groups can exist is a sign of the times. Fifty years ago, such groups would have been counterproductive: instead of a safe place, these groups would have been bull’s-eyes.

  Annalise: Set an example of not being homophobic, and not making homophobic remarks, and hope that others take on that acceptance too.

  Megan: My school has a program on sexual orientation; they mix it in with sex ed and suicide awareness. The leaders asked us what we would do if we found out one of our friends were gay. If you were okay, you went to one side of the room; if you weren’t, you went to the other side of the room. Only one person stayed on the not okay side.

  So. There you have it. I think there is only one right thing to do with our society. We have to turn it over to these people. Which is great, because eventually this is going to happen anyway, whether the rest of us are ready for it or not.

  My Name Is Sam

  I WAS SMOKING A CIGARETTE WITH THE PERFORMANCE poet outside the theatre. She smokes like a movie star, making sweeping semicircles with her forearms and revealing glamorous cheekbones with every inhale. When she exhales, a perfectly lipsticked stream of silver escapes her mouth between bits of story. I could watch her smoke until the sun showed up. I’m a Player’s Light regular peasant; she’s a Benson and Hedges Ultra Light King Size Menthol diva.

  We were interrupted by a squeal that belonged to a permed and tinted blonde in a beige pantsuit and dyed-to-match pumps. She sniffed her way through our smoking circle to kiss the poet on both cheeks and hug her without really touching.

  “Oh my God,” the blonde exclaimed, “I thought that was you. You look fabulous. Haven’t changed a bit. It’s been a long time. When did we graduate? Nineteen seventy …”

  The poet blanched, and interrupted her. “Ivan, this is …”

  “Diane. I’m Diane. We went to high school together. Oh, I could tell you some stories.”

  The poet cleared her throat and took a long drag from her cigarette. “Well, actually, Diane, you graduated a few years ahead of me.”

  Diane looked confused. I smiled. The performance poet has been lying to me about her age for several years now, and for me to do the math at this juncture would be ungentlemanly. To know her age in people years would be tantamount to seeing the bride in her dress before the ceremony. She is beautiful years old according to the diva calendar, and that is all I’ve ever needed to know.

  Diane changes the subject. “Well, I married Richard of course, we have one son, twenty-three, and one daughter, twenty-one. They’re both at the University of Alberta, doing well, and I’m directing Fiddler on the Roof this summer, in the park right across the street. You should come by one night. We’re having a gas. The kids are just great. And you, are you still writing poetry?”

  “Always.” The poet exhales, blinking.

  “How interesting. We should do lunch one day, I’d love to hear all about it. Call me. I should be off, though, to round up the kids. It was nice to meet you.”

  And she was gone, leaving only a hint of Oscar de la Renta in the air.

  “She’s much older than me,” the poet whispered over the sound of Diane’s pumps retreating.

  “Quite obviously so.” I grind my cigarette under the heel of my Daytons. “Let’s head in. I’m on in half an hour.”

  Right at the end of my set, I heard a small kerfuffle in the balcony. It was over quickly, and I thought no more of it.

  Post-show, we resumed our spot in the smokers circle, several hours and two beers later. There were five or six of us now, talking poetry, gossip, and business.

  A teenage boy paced around our circle a couple of times, took one huge breath, strode up and stood beside me. He seemed nervous, his hands stuffed deep into the pockets of his too-big-for-him black blazer. He waited for a pause in the conversation, and then placed a long-fingered hand on my forearm.

  “Sorry to interrupt you,” he stammered. “But I have to thank you for your stories tonight. You just changed my life. My life is changed now. I really needed to hear what you just said. I’m a huge fan of spoken word and poetry.”

  I tuned out everyone else except the boy. This was one of those moments, I could tell, one of those moments you conjure up when you’re trying to sleep on the cat pee-scented couch in a chilly basement room on tour somewhere in Manitoba, to remind yourself why you choose to do this for a living. I extended my hand to him.

  “My name is Sam. I’ve been reading Ferlinghetti and Rilke for years, and I’m a huge fan of Sheri-D …” He shook my hand with baby-soft palms. His bangs hung over his caterpillar lashes and brown eyes. He had a peace sign and a Sex Pistols button on his lapel. The knees of his jeans were peeled back to reveal doorknob kneecaps. His dress shoes were spit-shined. I loved him.

  “This is Sheri-D right here, I’ll introduce you … she doesn’t bite, well, not strangers, anyway.”

  I tapped on the performance poet’s elbow. “Sheri-D, I’d like you to meet Sam. He loves poetry.”

  Sam swallowed, overwhelmed. “Wow, pleased to meet you, all of you, the show was, well, it blew my mind, and I’d do it all over again, it was worth it all, even though I got into trouble.”

  Sheri-D furrowed her brow and looked sideways at Sam. “You got into trouble for coming to a poetry reading?”

  “Well, I skipped out of our meeting after my show. I’m in the play across the street, in the park. I’m the boyfriend of the milkman’s daughter.”

  Suddenly Diane and her pumps and perm were upon us again. “There you are Sam, good, I wanted to talk to you. I want you to know, I’m not angry with you, just disappointed. You can’t take off like that without telling anyone where you are going. We were all concerned for your safety. This is downtown Calgary, and I am responsible for all of you. We had to call the police, and security.”

  The whole picture became apparent to both Sheri-D and I at the same time, and we simultaneously clutched our aching chests with our right hands. Sheri-D spoke first.

  “Sam is in trouble for skipping his notes to come and see Ivan tell stories?”

  I thought about all the things I ever got busted for when I was fifteen. Poetry readings were not among them. My heart opened and swallowed Sam up.

  Diane nodded. “We had to have security remove him from the theatre. They serve alcohol in there. We were looking all over for him. He’s been suspended from the play for two nights.”

  “I’
ll leave you two tickets at the door for tomorrow night then.” Sheri-D smiled at Sam. Diane fixed an acid stare on Sheri-D. “Well, he might as well, since he’s not working,” Sheri-D shrugged.

  I nodded. The boy needed poetry, that much was obvious.

  “It is time to get you home, Sam.” Diane grabbed the sleeve of his jacket and steered him towards her mini-van.

  Sam called back over his shoulder to us as he was led away by one arm. “I’d do it all again. I loved it. They call me Art Fag at school.” The sliding door shut, and he was gone.

  “What a bitch,” Sheri-D breathed sideways at me. “No wonder she looks so much older than I do.”

  “Decades,” I agreed, and lit her next cigarette for her.

  Nobody Ever

  IT WAS RAINING THE DAY I MET HER. The kind of rain that hits the pavement and puddles so hard it bounces back at the sky, backward and defiant. It was the kind of evening best spent inside, but there she was, standing soggy on the sidewalk, waiting to talk to me.

  As soon as I emerged from the back door of the theatre, she speed-walked in a straight line towards me. Her name was Ruby, she told me, and she was from a small town, about three hours’ drive from here. She was almost twelve years old and she wanted to be a firefighter when she grew up, or maybe a marine biologist. Her mom had driven her here, so she could see me perform at the Capitol Theater. It had said on my website that I was going to be reading in Olympia, Washington, and since it was a Saturday and there was no school she had made her mom drive her all this way for my show, but then it turned out that since they were selling alcohol in the theatre she wasn’t allowed inside, not until she turned twenty-one, anyways, which was like, ten years away, practically.

  She took a deep breath, and continued. She had seen me at the folk festival in Vancouver last summer, and I had read a story about a tomboy I had met at the farmers’ market, did I remember the one?

  I nodded, yes, I did.

  She shifted her weight from one sneakered foot to the other and back again, like she needed to pee, and flipped her head back to shake her shaggy bangs out of her eyes. She blurted out her words like machine gun bullets, like she had been rehearsing them for a while, her mouth pursed in a determined little raisin.

  When she first heard that story, well, she was just amazed, she told me. She had begged her mom to buy her all of my books right there on the spot, but her mom only had enough money for one. She had to wait until it was her birthday, which was October by the way, until she could get my next book, and then she got one more from her aunt at Christmas, but when was I going to put out a new one? She liked them all, nearly the same amount, except for Loose End, which of course was her favourite because it had the story “Saturdays and Cowboy Hats” in it, which was the very first story of mine she ever found out about, when she heard me at the park in Vancouver last summer but she had already told me that part.

  By this time I was ready to scoop Ruby up in my arms and hug her, but I didn’t, because her mom was waiting in the car parked two feet away from where we were standing and I thought it might seem weird.

  Ruby stepped sideways, farther under the awning over the door of the theatre. She pulled a love-worn copy of my book out from her rain jacket, and held it out to me.

  “Could you sign it for me? To Ruby, Love from Ivan? You could say, To my biggest fan, Ruby, too, if you felt like it. Whatever you want.”

  I wrote “To Ruby, my biggest fan, Love from your biggest fan, Ivan,” and passed it back to her. She tucked it under her armpit for safekeeping. Her fingernails were bitten right down to the quick, just like mine used to be.

  “Thanks. I really love your books a lot. Especially the one about the tomboy, cuz, well, the little girl in that story, she reminds me of me.” She paused for a second, met my eyes with hers, and held them there. “And nobody ever reminds me of me.”

  I stepped back out into the rain, hoping that it would look like raindrops sliding down my cheeks, not big hot tears. I pulled one of my CDs out of my bag and passed it to her.

  “Here you go, this should hold you until the new book is out.”

  The last time I saw Ruby, she was waving backwards at me from the passenger seat of a beat-up station wagon. Her mom honked the horn twice goodbye as they turned and disappeared around the corner.

  A while ago I was reading at a fundraising dinner in Ottawa, and I met a woman named Hilary. Hilary was in her fifties I would say, wearing black boots and old jeans. She used to own her own house painting company, but she was retired now. I liked how she shook my hand too hard, how the skin of her palms was still callused, how she spooned too much sugar into her coffee. I liked how she ate her salad with her dinner fork and didn’t care. Her hair was just getting long enough to brush the collar of her dress shirt and hang over the tops of her ears. This probably bothered her, and she probably had an appointment to get it cut early next week, before it got totally out of hand.

  After the gig was over, she helped me pack the rest of my books out to my truck. We talked about everything and nothing: what it used to be like working on a job site twenty years ago, how it is better now but not by much, what a difference a good pair of snow tires can make, how the old back just ain’t what it used to be, stuff like that.

  The snow was falling in fat lazy flakes. The parking lot was empty, except for two trucks, one hers, the other mine. Finally, she shook my hand hard one last time and then pulled me into a hug.

  “Make sure you keep in touch,” she told me. “It was great to meet you. You remind me of me when I was a kid.”

  As Good As We Can Make It

  I HAVE BEEN A ROAD DOG LATELY. Festivals, theatres, conferences, planes, boats, rental cars, road and road and then some more road. And schools. I have been doing a lot of high school gigs too. Sometimes I wonder if maybe I get the opportunity to see the insides and the guts of more high schools, and shake hands with more students, and stumble through more uncomfortable introductions to more principals, and cover more territory, span more provinces and borders and districts and countries, even, than almost anyone working in our education system today. Sure, it’s quick and I am there and then gone in a little under two hours, mostly, but still. You get a sense of a place, a taste of it, anyway, and more and more I am sampling the smorgasbord of our school system, and where it best serves our students, and where it is still falling short. I do a one-hour show, designed to fit in between bells, forty-five minutes or so of storytelling, followed by a ten- to fifteen-minute question-and-answer and hopefully discussion period. I don’t say the word queer or gay or lesbian during this show, nor do I talk about sexuality at all. I just tell stories. Stories about me, my little sister, and my two little cousins, Dan and Christopher. Christopher was an awkward, clumsy kid who was mercilessly teased and picked on all throughout school, right from the beginning. I tell stories about the four of us, stuff we used to do when we were young, stupid broke-ass bored small-town kid stuff. I tell the story about how Christopher had gigantic feet for his age, size thirteen by the time he was eight years old, and about how we all got second-hand roller skates this one summer, all of us except Christopher, who could not cram his gigantic feet into the cool roller skates, so we had to buy him those crappy old-fashioned kind that you had to buckle up over your own shoes, and anyway long story short, he wipes out and craps his pants. Of course, all of us love a good poop-your-pants story, right? It’s a classic, I believe, the great leveler. We all pooped our pants when we were babies, and then accidentally here and there throughout our lives, and of course every single one of us is gonna shit ourselves again at some point on our way out of this world, unless it happens very quickly and we never see it coming, so in this way pooping yourself is one of those things that makes us all human, together. Needless to say this story goes over well with the kids, and I achieve my primary objective, which is to get them all to identify somehow with my clumsy and unlucky little cousin, to invest in him somehow, to care about him, to sympathize. Hopef
ully we laugh together. Then I sit back and wait for the question, which almost always comes. Almost every show some kid puts up their hand and asks me where is Christopher now? Where is Christopher now? I tell them that I know what they want me to tell them. I tell them I really wish I could tell them what I know they want to hear. I say how much I wish I could tell them that my little clumsy cousin Christopher grew into his gigantic feet and eventually became a tall and handsome man, who would one day marry a tall handsome woman and they had two tall handsome children and now he lives happily in a suburb somewhere and works at his successful and fulfilling job in the IT industry, and that they have a little brown dog and a white picket fence, but I can’t. I can’t tell them that because Christopher died on Christmas Eve in his twenty-first year of a self-inflicted gunshot wound to the head, and that is why I come into high schools. That I want them all to know that someone cares about them, and that they have a right to access their public education without threat of physical, emotional, or spiritual violence. Then we talk about bullying, and what we can all do to work towards building a safe and respectful learning environment for each and every one of them. Recently I was in St. John’s, Newfoundland for a storytelling festival. This festival has historically asked all of their performers do a few school gigs while they are in town. But a couple of weeks ago the festival director called me up to inform me that six St. John’s schools had turned down my show, even though the festival was going to pay my fee and it would have cost these schools nothing. She was a little embarrassed about the whole situation. Said this had never happened before. Said the principals were concerned that I might upset certain parents, that perhaps I was … not appropriate, somehow, for a high school environment. So. I ended up doing only two school shows in St. John’s, the only two schools that would have me, which were the Catholic school, ironically, and an alternative school for kids who had dropped out of the public school system altogether, many of whom had been bullied right out of an education, and/or battled learning disabilities or other challenges. Both shows were amazing, full of good discussions and intelligent questions. It was a great way to spend a Thursday. But that very same Thursday night in St. John’s, the unthinkable happened. One of the students from a school that had turned down my anti-bullying show took his own life. I don’t know him, never had the chance to meet him. I don’t know if he was gay, or even if he was bullied, and now I will never know. But obviously something was going on for him. There is no way to know if a one-hour storytelling show and discussion might have changed this terrible outcome for this boy, and his family, and his friends and fellow students, who will all carry his death now for the rest of their lives. How do I know this? Because I carry my cousin’s, it is right here with me now. I don’t know that my show would have changed anything. I don’t know that. But what really haunts me is that I don’t know that it wouldn’t have helped him, either. I send my compassion and love out to his family and classmates. What will it take for school administrations to realize that providing a safe school environment for all is more important than catering to the bigotries of the few? I want to share part of an article that my friend Matt Pearson, an Ottawa writer and journalist, published, called “The Arithmetic of Shame.” Matthew writes: “You may have read or seen on the news recently that a teenage boy in Ottawa took his own life after struggling for some time with depression and the challenges of being the only openly gay student at his suburban high school. I covered the tragic story as a reporter for a daily newspaper and have remained troubled by it for days afterward. “I did not know this child. But what I do know, at least in part, was the depth of despair he too often felt. It mirrored what I felt more than 15 years ago as a confused and pimply teen growing up in Woodstock, Ontario. “At my Catholic elementary school, I was called names on the playground years before understanding the full and hurtful meaning of them. I was made to feel different—and not in a good way—because I preferred drama, hung out mostly with girls and didn’t like rough-and-tumble competitive sports. I soon became isolated. I developed a deep sense that even if I didn’t quite know what those words meant, it must have been something pretty awful, judging by the way some boys I had known for years spit them at me. “I started bringing candy and bubble gum to school to give out freely on the playground at recess. Later, I became one of those chauffeur teens, always glad to give someone a ride somewhere, even if it was way out of my way. “This is the arithmetic of shame. The subconscious calculations I made in hopes people could find in me enough good things to compensate for the one unspeakably ugly part. “I switched to the public school system for high school and hoped my troubles were behind me, as most of my classmates continued on to the Catholic high school. “But it only got worse. I know now, years later, that high school sucks for just about everyone, but back then, I thought it was my own private hell. The verbal harassment was almost unbearable and came from people—often boys, but sometimes girls, too—who I’d never even seen before. How could they know something about me that I was only beginning to understand? “I was never physically beaten up, which is a good thing because far too many young people are victims of assault. But while it may seem masochistic, I often wished I was because then perhaps my teachers and fellow students would see for themselves the black eyes and bruises of hate. “There were hallways, nooks and crannies in that school where I never dared to go, especially on my own. And this was a school where my father—a kind man who has loved and supported me unconditionally since the day I came out a dozen years ago—was principal. I know it still pains him that he could not protect me.”